


The Hunted

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Consensual Underage Sex, First Time, M/M, Obsession, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5612782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celegorm wants everything of his father; Curufin is all too ready to provide it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunted

Tyelcormo knew that a very fine line separated hunter and hunted. Unlike most other hunters, he could talk to animals, he knew what they felt, how they felt. It made killing them very much like killing a potential friend. Hunting had quickly become for him a mere exercise in ruthlessness, and its fixed sequence of actions – tracking, cornering, killing – held only bland excitement for him. 

At the same time, he had set his sights on a much greater catch. A catch none other could match: Fëanáro, the very man who had engendered him. Of course, he had his fair share of Fëanáro as his father, but it was not the parent, not the craftsman or the loremaster he wanted to make _his_. He loved those, but there was another side to his father he had come to descry, once grown, just as he had fathomed the souls of animals by learning their tongues. 

He craved his father's touch, his body, to feel his skin under his hands and hold him in his arms. He wanted the most uncontrolled side of his father, a creature fierce as the beasts who populated the wildest regions of Valinor, and who loved with all the instinctive, blunt directness of one. 

The mere thought of _him_ kindled Tyelcormo's excitement the way hunting had by then stopped doing. The need for his father – talk to him, possess him or just see him – made even Oromë's company seem bland, made him grimace inwardly when his occasional companions expressed sympathy for him in their words or gestures, because it must have been hard being the son of such a masterful man and not have anything in common with him. He threw his head back and laughed whenever they did. They took it as a liberating outburst, and it was: it was the best alternative by far to beating them up until they had no breath left in them to utter his father's name, and trample on his own love without even realising it. 

But there was one thing he rued, and that harrowed him, about his father. He had not known him in his youth. He was the third of his sons, and no matter how aware he was that his father loved him just as much as his brothers, older and younger, as much as he had in due time laid his claim on him exactly as he wanted, he couldn't be content. He rued missing such an important part of his father's existence, he rued not possessing him completely.

And then, there was Curufinwë. Cunning, brilliant Curufinwë, whose body was still slender and soft, but who was developing the same musculature as their father, looked splendidly alike, and had already shown the same skill. Having Curufinwë would be like having their father when he was young, and before anybody else had. 

Tyelcormo had been 24 when Curufinwë had been born, and well past his majority when Curufinwë had begun growing into a man. He kept a watchful eye on his little brother, observed his growth in silence, patient like any good hunter would be. 

He didn't need to woo him, didn't even need to confess his desire to him. Curufinwë knew, by virtue of his innate closeness to their father. After their mother had named him, his affinity with Fëanáro became all-embracing, the rich soil from which his existence drew its lifeblood. 

Tyelcormo waited until Curufinwë was the same age their father had been when he had married their mother, then he arranged to take him to his favourite hide-out.

He had built that tree house around one of the largest sequoias in a forest at the foot of the Pelóri. He often took their father there, and together they would indulge in each other, far from everything else.

Curufinwë looked at the bed and the implements he pulled out from a box with a haughty air, eager to play the role his own birthright and now his brother's desire had cast him into. He strutted to the very middle of the room, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at Tyelcormo expectantly, almost challengingly, his face upthrust, a self-assured smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Dressed in their father's old riding clothes, he looked exactly like Fëanáro must have looked as a youth very close to his majority.

Tyelcormo walked up to him, feeling keenly at that moment like both hunter and hunted.

He fell to his knees before his brother, before the revered image of their father, and nuzzled his groin. 

“Curufinwë –” he said, his voice coming out in a shaky whisper, almost a sob. He turned to kiss the bulge that had begun to tent his father's riding pants, the leather musty for having been stored for a long time in a chest. They were only slightly large for Curufinwë, crinkling inside his boots. 

Tyelcormo undid the laces of those, his fingers working deftly in spite of his excitement, and he held them in place while Curufinwë slipped his feet out of them, first the right and then the left, his hands resting on Tyelcormo's broad shoulders for balance. Tyelcormo shivered at the simple pressure of those fingers – clenching a little harder than it would have been necessary. He set the boots aside, lined them neatly one next to the other, because he knew Curufinwë didn't like untidiness. It was one of the little things in which he was different from their father, but Tyelcormo didn't mind: it was part of the illusion that he needed taking care of. 

He pulled Curufinwë's socks off too, and put them inside the boots. Then he bent down, doubling over, his forehead almost level with the planks of the floor. He kissed Curufinwë's feet, letting his lips dawdle on the skin to savour the tremors, the very first spike of pleasure that went up his brother's body. 

His mouth slid to the ankle, and travelled up the inside of Curufinwë's left leg, over the swelling muscle and the indentation of his knee. He couldn't resist a bite to the thigh. 

“Turco!” Curufinwë exclaimed in protest, with the exact same cadence their father would have used. 

“Sorry,” Tyelcormo murmured and his tongue darted out to lick the same spot, leaving a wet stain on the leather. 

Gentler nips took him slowly to Curufinwë's crotch. Once again he pressed his nose to the bulge there, now bigger, and inhaled deeply, once, twice, lingering.

“Come on Turco, don't you want to pleasure me?” Curufinwë softly prodded. “Do it.”

“Yes –” Tyelcormo panted, his voice breaking off at the impulse to add _'father'_. He wanted to, _needed_ to, but was afraid that saying it would break the illusion, would be going too far. A loud little intake of breath that Curufinwë guessed it, and probably wanted to hear that word just as ardently as Tyelcormo wanted to utter it. Tyelcormo's cock stiffened even more at the thought, straining against the seams of his own riding pants. But it wasn't time to tend to his own physical need, yet.

He opened Curufinwë's trousers and pulled them down, leaving them anchored around his thighs. He tugged at Curufinwë's brief – realising as he did that his hands trembled – and Curufinwë's cock sprang out. It pointed right towards Tyelcormo's face, bending just slightly to the left, stiff and tumid, the foreskin already pulled back from the head. Tyelcormo stooped forward, and stuck his tongue out, trailing it over the slit. 

A sharp sigh escaped Curufinwë's mouth, while his hips jerked back a little, as if the sensation had stung him.

Tyelcormo's hands circled his thighs to settle beneath his soft buttocks, a hold which served to keep Curufinwë still as much as it served to steady himself, and he leant in closer. He licked his brother's cock, circling his tongue around the ridge and gliding it down along the curved line of a prominent vein. 

Wild enjoyment surged in him as he repeated the motion, again and again, all over the shaft. He had done the same for his father, many times. It was knowing that Curufinwë was experiencing those sensations for the first time, that he was the one introducing him to the joys of lust and tangible, seizable love, that no-one else would, that turned the act into something special, sacred.

His mouth travelled back up from the base to the tip, and stopped on the head, swirled around it, and suckled, tasting the first leak of Curufinwë's cock. Then he moved his head down, gradually taking the shaft deeper, adjusting his breathing as he went, until the tip of his nose was tickled by the black curls which crowned Curufinwë's manhood. His own chest heaved deeply, but he held his brother all the way inside his throat, massaging him. 

“Turco,” Curufinwë wailed, his hands shooting down to tangle in Tyelcormo's hair. 

Tyelcormo held on for a moment longer, then slowly pulled back, savouring the silky skin as it slid under his lips, and sucking the spit that dripped down his chin back into his mouth as his brother's cock slipped out of it.

“Curufinwë, my beloved,” he said, and was rewarded by a radiant smile and the pressure of Curufinwë's fingers on his scalp.

He went back to licking, low to Curufinwë's balls, dipping his head to reach their underside, and lapping hungrily until Curufinwë pulled on his hair and demanded, “suck me again,” in such an urgent manner that Tyelcormo immediately obeyed. He returned his mouth to Curufinwë's cockhead and cupped his balls, holding them cradled in the palm of his hand. He rolled them gently between his fingers while his lips travelled up and down the shaft. Curufinwë's breathing quickened the faster they went, and soon he began to tremble. 

“Turco –” 

That name, repeated, uttered with so much transport and love was the perfect prelude to Curufinwë's first climax – hot, thick seed shooting in streaks down Tyelcormo's throat and then his mouth as he swiftly pulled back, because he yearned to taste his young brother-young father. He collected his release on his tongue, spreading it around his mouth before swallowing it. 

When he raised his head again, Curufinwë's face was flushed a bright red, rapt, his eyes hooded and glazed. His right hand kept massaging Tyelcormo's head. He looked more beautiful than ever, the living mirror of their father. 

“May I take you now?” Tyelcormo entreated, sliding his hands up and down Curufinwë's thighs.

Curufinwë lifted his left foot and poked Tyelcormo's cock with it, making him squirm before saying, “yes, Turcafinwë.” 

That reply, the slight tremble in Curufinwë's silvery voice, sent a renewed rush of blood to Tyelcormo's cock that doubled his excitement. Curufinwë pushed his father's pants all the way down to his ankles, and stepped out of them, in the same careless way Tyelcormo had spied Fëanáro do when he changed out of his work-clothes after a night spent in the forge, with sweat clinging to his skin and the smell of soot like a lush fragrance. 

“Take off my shirt.” 

Tyelcormo stood on shaky legs to comply. He couldn't help brushing his hands over Curufinwë's chest as he lifted the garment and threw it out of the way. Finally naked, Curufinwë ambled over to the bed, kneeling down on it then stretching with his legs splayed open, his momentarily flaccid cock resting beautifully between them. 

Tyelcormo made to join him, but Curufinwë clicked his tongue, halting him, while throwing his hair behind his shoulders.

“Undress. Present yourself to me.”

Tyelcormo nodded. They had seen each other naked countless times, when they bathed or swam together, but this – its aim – would be entirely different. Tyelcormo wasn't graceful, or deft as he took his boots off, fumbling with the laces, and he was even less adroit as he got rid of his pants and undergarments. He met Curufinwë's eyes again as he took hold of the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, holding his arms up to let Curufinwë look at him, a revent offering. 

Curufinwë pretended not to be affected. “Don't leave our clothes lying around,” he tersely said. 

Tyelcormo lowered his arms and turned, but could still feel Curufinwë's gaze fixed on his body while he picked up the strewn garments and set them on the only chair in the room, as neatly as he could, before arousal brought him back to the bed. He stood at the foot of it, naked, waiting for Curufinwë to speak again. 

Curufinwë's eyes drifted up and down his broad chest, his bulging arms, appraising him, and finally stopped on his fully engorged cock. “You are impatient, aren't you?” he said. “But you are so big, Turcafinwë, and you do not want to hurt me, do you?”

Tyelcormo automatically shook his head. “I will take good care of you...Curufinwë,” he vowed, still hesitating on the name. 

“Go on then.”

Tyelcormo grabbed the blanket that was strewn across the foot of the bed, and folded it, sticking it under Curufinwë's ass. Once again he knelt and rained quick, wet kisses on the inside of his little brother-little father's thighs, drawing closer to his opening without hurry, tracing every contour of his muscles. When he finally got to the cleft of Curufinwë's ass, he placed a kiss on the untouched opening that was to be his, then slowly dragged the flat his tongue over it. 

Curufinwë's body writhed on the mattress, and against Tyelcormo's face. “That feels so good,” he mewled.

Tyelcormo smiled and licked his hole again, placidly up and quicker back down. On the third upward lick he reached almost to Curufinwë balls. He was tempted to lick them too, suck them, take them into his mouth and lave them as he had his cock, but there would be time for that, later. His tongue went back to Curufinwë's hole, lapping over it and on either side of it. 

Curufinwë sighed blissfully and demanded, “more.” 

Tyelcormo moved his tongue faster, flicking it up and down and side to side, making Curufinwë wet with his spit, until his hole was softened by the continuous stimulation, twitching open for him, beckoning him.

Tyelcormo took the jar of lubricant from the box and smeared a very generous amount of it over Curufinwë's opening, and worked it inside with his fingers, making sure Curufinwë's inner walls would be thoroughly slicked too. By then, his impatience was beginning to gnaw at his self-control.

He coated his cock in the thick salve, and put the tip to Curufinwë's hole. His heart was beating impossibly fast and he knew, he _knew_ that was how a beast felt when it had been cornered, when it realised there was no escape and all it could hope for was a quick death. He breathed in deeply through his nose. He dithered, trying to bring his thoughts, his feelings to order. He feared he would simply lose control at the crucial moment, give in to his basest craving. His father's eyes stared at him, inviting, transfixing. He was so aroused he was almost dizzy. He took hold of Curufinwë's legs and pressed forward. His cock nudged the moist opening, pressed against it.

“Open for me, Curufinwë,” he said, half an entreat and half a demand, “don't-...don't make me –”

Curufinwë canted his hips and pushed out, and in a movement that ended up being far too sudden Tyelcormo's cockhead slipped past Curufinwë's sphincter and was snugly wrapped by his ass in giddy heat. 

Both gasped. 

Tyelcormo managed to stay still for only a couple of seconds, and was pushing further in.

“Turco –” Curufinwë panted, his brow creasing. 

“I'm sorry –” Tyelcormo nearly cried, “I'm sorry...you feel so good,” he said, time and again, in a desperate effort not to move. 

He took several shallow, halting breaths. He straightened, planted his hands on either side of Curufinwë's body and clumsily stretched to reach his lips. “I love you, Curufinwë,” he panted in between kisses. “You are the most precious to me, I love you more than anything else.”

Curufinwë stared fixedly up at him, his forehead creasing and smoothing again, his lips parted to let out little gasps. Tyelcormo stared back at him, devouring, and began to move in earnest, withdrawing and pushing back in, deeper, deeper every time until at last all of his cock was inside his brother, his father, his most fervently beloved. He thrust awkwardly, stopping frequently, slow one moment, fast and uneven the next, but always, deliriously, overwhelmed by the ecstasy of that taking. 

And then, all of a sudden, Curufinwë slapped him. The sound of it rang sharp and clear in Tyelcormo's ears as he jerked to a stop and his eyes shot open, but at the same time a violent throb coursed through his loins and he heard his own voice risen to a rowdy moan.

“You're a beast,” Curufinwë hissed, and hit him again, but with his left hand, on the other cheek.

Once again Tyelcormo moaned loud. His father had never slapped him, never hit him, but their lovemaking often turned rough – with scratching and yanking at each other's hair and holding each other down. The pleasure was so raw that Tyelcormo felt like he would be consumed. His mouth fell open. With both cheeks stinging from the slaps, and his cock sheathed fully in Curufinwë's body he gasped, “ata-” and saw Curufinwë's face light up in anticipation. “Atarin-” he went on, choking and raggedly drawing air in again. “...atarinya,” he groaned, and with that he came. 

“Pull out,” Curufinwë urged, and though dizzy and breathless Tyelcormo gingerly obeyed. But he didn't let go of his brother, stretched out next to him and held him. 

“Did- did I hurt you?”

“Say it again!” Curufinwë demanded with the utmost seriousness.

Tyelcormo blushed, but again croaked out, “atarinya.”

Curufinwë closed his eyes for an instant, lowered his right hand between his legs, poking at the wetness there while his mouth stretched into a smile. The same hand came to rest Tyelcormo's cheek, pale skin which bore the imprint of his own fingers, burning like a brand, one which Tyelcormo would have worn gladly. 

“Is that how you love your father, Turcafinwë, that you would just take his virginity like a beast?” Curufinwë cooed, his soft tone clashing with the crudity of his words. “But you can't do anything about it, can you? It's in your instinct. It's all you can think of...to have me.”

Tyelcormo could only assent. 

Curufinwë's smile turned mischievous. He gently pushed Tyelcormo to lie supine, and draped himself over him. “Isn't it a little absurd, then, my hunter?” he said, and before Tyelcormo could speak went on, “doesn't that make _you_ my prey? All that is left for you is to say it, really...who do you belong to?”

Tyelcormo locked his arms behind his brother's back, trapped under his sweet weight.

“You...atarinya.”

**Author's Note:**

> Atarinya ('my father') is normally shortened to atya, but with Curufin's mother-name being Atarincë, I think the longer form is more appropriate.


End file.
